A/N - Yami - why did Christine faint? Shock, a too-tight corset, force of habit - all, any or none of the above. And I used Rose's surname and not Christine's simply because we already know Christine and everyone already knows her name (she isn't Daaé anymore incidentally, she was married in the first chapter) but Rose is a new character (who won't be reappearing, I might add, she was just a cameo really) whom we hadn't met before, and I thought it would be appropriate to introduce her properly.

The Marquis de St. Cyr is a character some of you may recognise as from the Scarlet Pimpernel (just for you, Maya!!) He wasn't chosen for any particular reason - just wanted a familiar face in there!! So he belongs to Baroness Orczy or Frank Wildhorn and Nan Knighton (although his character development is all mine!)

Thank you guys so so much for the reviews - and I'm so so sorry it's taken me so long to update.

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Christine's eyes fluttered open. Disorientated and confused, she lay perfectly still for a few moments, trying to gather her bearings.

It all came back to her in a rush of memory, and she sat up instantly, looking around for him in sudden apprehension.

It took her a moment to distinguish him from the darkening sky, his heavy black cloak blending into the shadow cast by the tree under which he stood. He raised his head slightly, and the flash of white that was his mask sent another wave of faintness over her. He was beside her at once with one of the lightning movements she remembered so well, cold hands on her shoulders preventing her from falling.

In spite of herself, the unexpected coldness of his hands made her shiver, and he withdrew instantly, rising and turning away to stand a few feet away from her, barely distinguishable from the darkness.

Christine fought for words, searching her mind frantically for something to say. Erik turned slowly back to face her, his face hidden by the shadows.

"Are you all right?" he asked expressionlessly.

Christine struggled to sit up again, conscious of how foolish she must look, grateful that he had broken the silence. "Yes, of course," she managed, pushing herself up and leaning against the tree for support.

He nodded, inclined his head formally towards her and turned to leave. Christine reached out in dismay, stretching out her hand unconsciously to him.

"Erik, wait!"

He halted and turned slowly to face her, his expression unreadable, one eyebrow raised questioningly. Christine flushed and withdrew her hand, suddenly awkward.

"I just ..." she began lamely, flushing an even deeper red.

Erik made an elegant, questioning gesture in the air with one long hand. "You just ...?" he repeated flatly, folding his arms under his cloak.

Christine struggled to her feet, trying to resist Erik's discomfiting efforts at intimidation, wishing he were not quite so tall.

"I ... you followed us here?"

He laughed humourlessly. "Actually, no ... you followed me here. Not quite the reception I was expecting, I must admit."

"What?"

He sighed, brushing a hand across his face, for a moment forgetting to keep his face angled so that the shadows hid the mask. "I have been in England for about four months now," he said wearily, leaving her to draw her own conclusions.

Her hand flew to her mouth, and for a moment he thought she might faint again.

"Oh God." She drew a deep breath and looked up at him helplessly. "I didn't know."

He made an elegant, graceful little shrug. "How could you have done?"

Her eyes dropped to his suitcase. "You're leaving?" The thought that she had driven him first away from the place which had been his home for almost thirty years, and now even away from a foreign country, affected her more than she would have expected.

"So it would appear."

As Christine searched frantically for something to say, her mind unwittingly flew back to their previous relationship at the Opera. The contrast was painful and unavoidable; the immense power and grace with which he had always been invested had somehow deserted him, and now he just looked tired; he was thinner, less charismatic, his voice somehow devoid of that unearthly resonance which had always so captivated her. He might have been any man, she realised suddenly. Any man rejected and abandoned ...

She closed her eyes over sudden tears, and realised when she opened them that he had turned away from her and was now standing with his back to her, staring out across the darkening hotel grounds to the lake.

"You don't look well," she said uncertainly. "Are you all right?"

Erik ignored the question and picked up his suitcase with an air of finality.

"You are going to be late for dinner," he said flatly. "Can you walk?"

Christine looked away, through the sheltering branches of the willow, to where the sun was setting glorious red over the hotel lake.

"Yes," she said sadly, wondering briefly whether he would have picked her up again had she said no.

He nodded and tilted his hat to her. "In that case, if you'll forgive me, I'll leave you to make your own way back to the hotel."

Christine nodded slowly. This was the way it had to be, after all ...

But her sense of duty to Raoul, and the common sense which told her further encounters could only bring further pain, to both of them, did not stop her asking, "Will I see you again?"

There was a long pause which seemed interminable to both of them.

"No," he said shortly, and dissolved into the darkness.

Christine stood very still under the tree for a long time, before finally she began to walk slowly back towards the hotel.

She did not turn to look behind her. Perhaps, if she had, she might have seen a tall dark figure step silently out of the shadows under the spreading branches of the weeping willow, and watch the hotel door close behind her with something very like despair in his eyes.

*          *          *

Christine bent over the sink, splashing cold water over her face, swallowing the desire to cry.

This is how it has to be, she told herself fiercely. What would Raoul say?

Guilt rising in her throat, she hastily turned away from the mirror and scrubbed her face savagely with a towel, throwing the towel down onto the floor and beginning to pace distractedly up and down the room.

Raoul.

How could she ever face him tonight? It was impossible that she should keep this painfully fractured meeting with his greatest enemy hidden from him; but how could she ever explain to him the tangled mass of contradictions that were her feelings for Erik?

She stopped and distractedly dragged a hand through her hair, looking hopelessly around the room and feeling the guilt almost choke her.

"Christine?"

She jumped violently, turning around, her heart hammering with shock.

"Raoul!"

He stood in the doorway, carrying a single pink rose.

"For you," he said with a smile, offering it to her and bending to kiss her on the cheek.

"Oh!" She took the rose and lifted it to her face, inhaling the familiar sweet scent that brought back a rush of memory she had been trying so hard to suppress. "Thank you."

"Are you all right?" he asked with concern, his eyes flickering over her. "You don't seem yourself."

"Oh no!" Christine floundered. "No, no, I'm fine. You just startled me, that's all."

He was still looking at her slightly oddly, but then he smiled and took her hands. "Christine, I'd like to introduce you to someone. Do you ever recall my telling you about the Marquis de St. Cyr?"

Willing her heartbeat to slow, smoothing her hair back with her free hand, Christine nodded. "Yes ... you said that his parents were family friends ..."

"And St. Cyr and I have always stayed close. That's it. He's been in England for a month or two now, and he's most anxious to meet you. I thought now would be a good time ... but if you'd rather not ..."

"Oh no, that sounds wonderful, do ask him to come in," she said, too quickly.

Raoul was still watching her closely.

"What's wrong?" he asked gently, moving to brush her hair back from her face.

"Nothing!" She could hear the false note in her voice, and hated herself. She forced herself to take a step forward and put her arms around him. "Nothing. You just ... startled me, that's all." She forced a laugh. "Really, Raoul, do ask him to come in."

Raoul gave her another slightly strange look, but nodded and stepped out into the passageway for a moment. She heard a brief buzz of conversation, and hastily smoothed her hair back from her face, trying to make herself presentable.

Raoul entered the room, and with him was a man of about the same age, with dark curly hair and hazel eyes, slightly taller than Raoul, lightly built with faint laughter lines crinkled around his eyes and mouth.

Raoul beamed, taking Christine's hand and looking from one to the other.

"Christine ... I'd like you to meet the Marquis de St. Cyr."

She curtseyed awkwardly, flushing slightly under the intense eyes of the Marquis.

"St. Cyr ... my wife, Christine."

"Enchantée, madame," he murmured, kissing her hand lightly. He glanced her over, then smiled, a dimple appearing. "You've chosen well, Raoul."

"What, am I a horse to be selected from the market?" Christine asked. Her tone was light, but the Marquis must have realised what offence he had caused, for he knelt before her in contrition.

"Forgive me, madame," he said quietly. "I did not mean to offend. You are ... of course, much more than a horse."

She smiled tightly. "While I'm still not sure that's a compliment, thank you."

St. Cyr smiled and took her hand. "I'm afraid I've offended you. Please do accept my sincerest apologies for having done so - it was quite unintentional." He smiled suddenly, a flash of humour in his dark eyes. "I fear this is doubtless the reason why our silver-tongued Raoul has won himself such a beautiful bride and I remain, alas, single." Raoul laughed and Christine had to smile.

"I'll leave you two alone now - Raoul, I'll see you in the bar later?"

Raoul nodded and took his friend to the door. The two men talked for a moment, then shook hands and St. Cyr left the room.

Christine entwined her fingers with Raoul's and laid her head on his knee. "He seems nice," she said automatically, her mind elsewhere.

Raoul nodded and stroked her hair. "He is. He and I have known each other for a very long time - I know he doesn't come across terribly well on a first encounter but he really is a good man. I'd like you to get to know him a little better."

Christine nodded automatically. "I'd like that." She rose cautiously, faking a yawn. "Raoul, I don't feel terribly well; would you mind if I didn't join you for dinner tonight? I think I'll just go to bed and try to get some rest."

Raoul took her hand in concern, his tenderness sending a fresh wave of guilt over Christine. "I knew there was something wrong. Is there anything I can do? Am I to send for the doctor?"

"No ... no, it's just a headache ... I think a good night's sleep should clear it well enough."

"Would you like me to stay with you?"

Christine shook her head, avoiding his eyes. "I'll be fine - I think I just need a good night's sleep."

Raoul rose slowly, confused and hurt. He knew Christine well enough to tell when she was failing to tell him the absolute truth, and the thought that she felt she could not share her troubles with him hurt him unbearably.

"All right," he said uncomfortably. "I'll be up later; try to get some rest. I'll only be downstairs in the bar if you need me; promise me that you'll call the maid if you do?"

Christine forced a smile. "Of course."

He kissed her very gently and left the room, taking care to close the door quietly.

When he returned to the room two hours later, Christine was curled up in bed with her face hidden in the shadows. She did not move when he whispered her name, and he assumed she was asleep.

He did not see her turn to watch him with guilt in her eyes as he slept.

*          *          *

Erik finished unpacking his suitcase and looked around the small, dingy room. No more the marble columns and concierge service of his previous hotel, he was sure to avoid encountering the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Chagny here. His room was small and uncomfortable, but comfortingly dark, the window barely functional for either the purposes of letting light in or air out. He sat down cautiously on the bed, wincing at the lumpy mattress. The entire hotel was cold, dark, gloomy, and deeply unsettling - almost like home, he reflected wearily.

He touched two long fingers to the case of his violin, and for the first time in months slowly undid the catches and removed the instrument. He sat staring down at it for a long time, remembering how he had played for her.

Remembering the absorbed adoration with which she had knelt at his feet to listen.

He drew a shaking hand across the polished wood of his violin. It had been so long since he had been able to play - so deeply had he repressed emotion, stifling it under layers of self-imposed indifference that composition seemed impossible, and any piece he could think of to play held some agonisingly painful memory he could not bear to recall. Music would forever now appear to him as a manifestation of Christine - and he simply could not bear to think of her. Remembering all that had happened between them was too deeply painful to consider, and her words to Raoul on the roof of the Opera Garnier the fateful first night of Il Muto now prevented him from deriving any pleasure even from the time when he had been her tutor ... even before she had seen his face.

If only he had not heard her that night! Had he not heard the anguish in her voice, seen the wild terror in her beautiful eyes, he could have comforted himself with delusional memories of the times he had played for her, read to her, carried her to bed when she had fallen asleep in his arms ...

But her words that night had put paid to all his memories, everything that he had been clinging so desperately to prove that she had cared for him once - however fleetingly, but once!

Erik passed a hand over his face and recoiled as his fingers touched the cold surface of the mask. He shuddered and bent over with pain, clenching his hands into fists against his eyes.

With a lightning fast movement, he kicked the violin case into a dark corner of the room, where it lay, half hidden in the shadows, sending up a cloud of dust, and disturbing a rat which dashed out and took refuge under the bed.

Erik rose stiffly and crossed the room to the small square window, staring blindly out into the dark of the night, London bustling and laughing below him.

He had not intended to stay; since his first glimpse of her at the hotel, he had known that the only possible way to prevent disaster was for him to leave immediately; his shadow could only darken their life together and bring further tragedy crashing down on all three of them. But he had not counted on their meeting; and it had been that chance encounter that had crippled his resolve and drained his strength to resist her. As long as he remained in London, there was a chance that he would see her again; and as long as there was that chance, he could stay alive.

*          *          *

In the next few weeks, Christine saw a lot of St. Cyr, and slightly to her surprise, began to like him very much. The problems on Raoul's estate back in France had magnified, and he was having to leave Christine on her own more and more often. St. Cyr had been a frequent companion - rather more, she suspected, due to Raoul's earnest desire that they should be friends than to any great liking on his part - but as the days wore on and they spent more and more time together, they became easier together, and by the end of Christine and Raoul's planned stay in England, were as fast friends as Raoul had ever wished them to be.

Christine awoke slowly, stretching luxuriously and slowly opening her eyes against the sunlight. She saw Raoul smile and stroke a lock of tangled hair away from her forehead, his fingers playing gently along her cheek.

She smiled sleepily and snuggled closer to him, closing her eyes against his chest, preparing to go back to sleep. She felt him draw one finger across her shoulder blades and smiled drowsily, turning against him.

"No," she murmured.

She heard him laugh softly and tug her hair. "Wake up," he whispered, drawing his fingers through her hair. "I want to talk to you."

She made a small complaining sound and groaned, rolling over and opening her eyes. "All right," she said grumpily. "I'm awake." Her face unwillingly broke into a smile at his expression, and she slapped him lightly on the arm. "Sadist."

Raoul grinned and kissed her playfully. "Shush. I want to be serious for a moment."

Christine snuggled into his arms and nodded. "Sober as a judge," she promised. "Go on."

"Well ..." Raoul smoothed her hair back from her face. "You know, one day I'm going to make you cut all this hair off - I woke up at about three this morning to find I was suffocating on it!"

Christine laughed and rubbed her head against his chest. "What did you want to be serious about?"

He smiled. "I've been thinking," he began.

Christine's eyes widened theatrically. "Good Lord!"

He laughed and took a handful of hair into one hand. "Speak again, and I'll pull it," he threatened playfully. Christine raised both hands in mock defence, and they both laughed.

Raoul resumed his speaking attitude. "You've enjoyed England, haven't you?" he began. Christine nodded, tucking a curl behind her ear, slightly confused. "I thought so. And I was wondering ... how would you feel about our buying a house here and settling down somewhere in London?"

"Oh!" Christine sat up, surprised. "Well ... it hadn't really occurred to me." She laughed. "This is a bit sudden, really, but ..." she smiled suddenly. "Yes," she said finally. "I'd like that."

Raoul beamed and kissed her. "I hoped you'd say that."

Christine snuggled back down into Raoul's arms. "Now, am I allowed to go back to sleep?"

He laughed and kissed her hair.

Outside, the sky was grey with ominous clouds that hung low over London, casting a shadow over the city with the threat of impending tragedy.